Far From Perfect
by ZONKOFRED Jerry Christianson
Summary: Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, and yet responsible for one of the greatest tragedies in wizard history, Dumbledore finds he is just like any other man, and the memory of his terrible mistake still haunts him.
1. Tenpin and Tragedies

"You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law so that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime so heinous that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court

"You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law so that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime so heinous that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court."

~Bartemius Crouch, Sr.

Most Muggles went their entire lives without even suspecting their underground magical world, but Maggie always knew there was something fishy about the man who came in her bowling alley every Monday morning during the summers. His fashion sense, for one thing, set him apart. He wore khaki shorts and a different patterned Hawaiian shirt every week. But the oddest article of clothing was his hat. It looked like something a sorcerer in a movie would wear, pointy with stars and moons on it. He had a knowing twinkle in his blue eyes, and a long white beard.

He wasn't a bad bowler, as seniors went. Maggie watched him pick up a spare with eight pins in the second frame with interest. Although not a bad bowler, Maggie realized, with a satisfied smile, that she was much better than he was.

She frowned. How strange. He was one of Maggie's best customers, and yet he somehow creeped her out. Maggie shook the feeling out of her head. Odd as this man was, she tried not to let herself worry about him. He paid his fair share, therefore he deserved fair service.

He reached over to pick up the ball, breathed on it and rubbed his hands over the marble surface, making it gleam. He went into his throw, and watched it speed towards the pins; a fox in pursuit of the chickens. 

Not his best, but nothing to be ashamed of. He marked it with the amusing half-pencils the Muggles used.

The bell over the door jangled merrily, "Another customer!" it seemed to shout to Maggie, "Profit!" it yelled as the door hit it again while closing. 

Albus Dumbledore looked up to see who the new arrival was. 

"Ah! Merriweather Longbottom!" he said as the tough old bird moved to the counter. She was pulling a boy behind her.

The lady smiled as she gave the man a look of recognition. She wandered from Maggie's register and went straight over to Dumbledore.

"Albus, it's been far too long," she said cordially.

Dumbledore smiled and took her hand. "My dear, you get lovelier every time I see you," he told her. _Well_, _she does look better than Severus looked in her clothes, I imagine_, he thought, giving himself a chuckle.

Dumbledore then noticed Neville, who was standing beside his grandmother. He was definitely getting taller with each passing day, but he was lean, too. Dumbledore frowned. He looked just like his father, Frank Longbottom...but Dumbledore shook the sensation out of his mind.

"So, Mr. Longbottom, you will be starting your fifth year at Hogwarts soon?" Dumbledore said in a conversational tone. 

The boy nodded nervously under the twinkling blue gaze of the headmaster, but stopped his nod at the look from his grandmother. He knew what she would say: "Answer him properly, Neville. He is your elder and deserves more than a nod!"

"Y-yes, sir." Neville said, backing up slightly and bumping into a soda machine.

Dumbledore nodded and smiled, but he was disturbed. _That poor boy is a nervous wreck, _he thought. _And it's all..._ but he stopped that thought_. One should never dwell on such things_, he reminded himself firmly. And yet…

*

Every witch and wizard slept in the morning after young Harry Potter defeated Lord Voldemort, for they had been up late celebrating the night before. But, old as Dumbledore was, even then he was up just as early as ever, scanning the headlines of The Daily Prophet and The London Times. A day in the life of Albus Dumbledore could not be interrupted by something as trivial as sleep.

He sat on his large green plush armchair in front of the fire, a cup of tea in one hand and the paper in the other. Dumbledore sighed at the redundant headlines in both papers.

HARRY POTTER DEFEATS HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED, the front page of The Daily Prophet said. There was an entire section devoted to Harry that morning; Dumbledore even read some of his own quotes on the boy. Of course, there was only a brief obituary on Lily and James Potter, which annoyed Dumbledore.

OWL SIGHTINGS UNUSUALLY HIGH, the Muggle paper read. Dumbledore chuckled. Even when magical activities were at their highest, the Muggles only noticed the most trivial things that came with it.

He went back to The Daily Prophet and flipped to the International section. ABERFORTH DUMBLEDORE CHARGED WITH INAPPROPRIATE GOAT CHARMS, said the next headline, and Dumbledore gave a start.

He shook his head angrily. As he read the article, he couldn't help but wonder _how _his younger brother got himself into these things.

Dumbledore wanted to write to his brother, but then he realized that Aberforth probably couldn't read anyway. Which was probably a good thing, considering all the hate mail that Aberforth (_and me, too,_ Dumbledore thought with a groan) would be receiving.

Dumbledore decided that if the matter got out of hand, he'd have to go in and say a good word or two for Aberforth, but just then, Dumbledore heard shouting from his fireplace in his office.

Dumbledore smiled as he walked out of his living quarters and into his office. He knew Alastor Moody's voice from anywhere, and he saw his face poking out of the fireplace in his office. But, Dumbledore could also read trouble on his best friend's face.

"What is it, Alastor?" he asked, wasting no time on pleasantries with his old friend.

"We've got an emergency over at the Ministry," Alastor said. "Mr Crouch's son is being accused of being a Death Eater...it's madness here, and if the press gets the gist of it, it'll all be over. We need you over here right away, if you don't mind..."

Dumbledore sighed. His brother would have to wait, but he promised himself he'd get to it soon – even if it meant leaving in the middle of a crisis. Aberforth was family, after all. He told Alastor he'd be right there, and when his old friend's head had disappeared from the fire, he threw in some Floo powder, and stepped in saying, "The Ministry for Magic!"


	2. Escape and Capture

Er Said Harry: sorry, I have a shitload of IM's

A/N:

_this is Jerry._

**And this is ZONKO **

_well, ZONKO and I just wanted to let you know, thank you so much for reviews! We really are excited to be getting so many in just one weekend! Now, mind you, I have been paying back all you signed in ppl by reviewing one or two of your stories, and I must say, they are all _really_ good._

**Same here, though I haven't gotten to all of them yet. Thanks for the awesome response! Dumbledore is so much fun to write, and it's a bonus when people like to read it =) **

"You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law so that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime so heinous that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court."

~Bartemius Crouch, Sr.

Dumbledore snapped back into reality when he realized Mrs. Longbottom was speaking. 

"What? What was that, Merriweather? You'll have to pardon me, I didn't have my cocoa this morning."

Merriweather nodded and said, "I was just asking, Albus, whether you were finished with your string. I saw you from outside, and thought you might like to accompany us. We're on our way to St. Mungo's."

From behind the counter, Maggie the Muggle scoffed. Not only would the customer not be paying, she'd be stealing her other customer.

But, Dumbledore noticed nothing. He was too full of emotion, listening to Merriweather.

"Are you sure?" he said softly.

Mrs. Longbottom looked back at Dumbledore. She gave him a look of pity, longing, and sadness, one that Neville didn't pick up, but she nodded firmly.

"Yes," she said, covering the look immediately, "We'd be glad for your company."

Dumbledore looked thoughtful for a moment, remembering again...but he shook it off. That could wait. 

He nodded at the two, and then sat down on a chair to remove his bowling shoes, saying, "Yes, I think I will come. It's the least I can do..." 

Mrs. Longbottom looked to where Neville had been, but he was a few yards away, watching in awe as a little girl got a soda from the machine. She looked back at Dumbledore as he put his shoes on the counter.

Merriweather didn't seem to notice Dumbledore's guilt, or if she did, she pretended not to notice. But Dumbledore still looked uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Well," he said, "Let's go then." 

He took Merriweather's arm, and she pulled Neville along beside her, out of the small alley leaving Maggie behind to shake her head.

They emerged out to the London streets, walking down long Muggle sidewalks. They were a strange group, with Merriweather's vulture hat and Dumbledore's Hawaiian shirt, but it was a Monday morning, and Muggles had places to go, so they hardly paid attention to the wizard folk.

Dumbledore led the group down the dingy street, and stopped in front of a place familiar to almost all Wizards in the area. The Leaky Cauldron. The bottom floor was dug in below street level, and the front door was reached by descending a few stairs. The trio went into the dimly lit pub and straight over to the bar where the owner greeted them.

"Albus, so nice to see you!" Tom greeted Dumbledore from the bar. "How can I help you? Will it be the usual?"

Dumbledore looked to Merriweather as though to ask if one drink would hurt, but she had that businesslike way about her.

"I'm afraid not, Tom," he said. "We only came so we could make use of your fireplace."

Dumbledore looked slightly put out, but then the look of guilt returned, and he headed straight to the fireplace. He took a pinch of the shimmering blue dust from the jar on the mantel, and threw it in, making the flames spring to life in a flash of green. He stepped in and the flames danced around him as he said, "St. Mungo's please." He had found many years ago, in an experiment, that if one asked politely the spirit that operated the Floo powder network, whatever it was, would be much more gentle with the user.

They emerged from a giant fireplace that was clean as a sterile hallway. Dumbledore had no trouble brushing off any ashes whatsoever as he helped Neville and his grandmother out of the fireplace. 

They were in a clean white room with clean white walls...in fact, everything about the room was clean. White, white, white, it was all dazzlingly white. Even Dumbledore blanched as he thought of what was to come. And what there was to be...

*

An Albus Dumbledore with a slightly shorter beard than the one standing in the hall of St. Mungo's came out of the main fireplace in the Ministry of Magic headquarters. His midnight blue starred robes whoosed behind him as he hurried towards the Auror Department to find Moody.

But apparently, Moody was already waiting for him.

"Albus!" Moody pranced on his friend. "We have a crisis here! It's not just the Crouch thing, but if word gets out there...Sirius Black has been spotted. Near the London area. We already have Aurors on the job, I'm going down there in a few minutes, but I fear he may do something rather rash, for all former Death Eaters are acting out of the ordinary. We still don't know whom to trust or what to believe..." Moody trailed off. Dumbledore could only nod, understanding.

"Anyway. I'll be back in a few hours...please do me a favor and take a look at the paperwork on my desk, okay?"

Dumbledore just nodded again, still hardly believing Sirius had been the traitor. As Moody went out the door, closing it behind him Dumbledore shook his head, clearing it of all but business-like thoughts. He opened the folder on Alastor's desk, and started flipping through pages.

Dumbledore frowned as he read over the pages. He looked at a recent newspaper clipping. There was a list of suspected Death Eaters, and the name Bartemus Crouch, Jr. was highlighted near the top. Though not one of his favorite people, Barty Crouch, Sr. was the last person Dumbledore would expect to be involved in this type of thing. Even if he was a stick in the mud, and old before his time, whereas Dumbledore was young long after his time, Crouch was an outstanding personality of the wizarding community. His son, on the other hand, was more the bratty upper-class son, loafing off of his family estate. Dumbledore was suprised Barty hadn't put his foot down before, but then his wife was excessively attached to the boy, so it was understandable.

He poured over the reports, the data, and all the papers on Moody's desk and found he couldn't concentrate. Thoughts of his brother, Sirius, Lily, James, the image of a young baby with a deep cut across his face...Dumbledore found he had too many thoughts in his head, and none were organized.

He sighed, wishing for a way to get his thoughts straight... he'd have to think about something to help him with that when things settled down.

Dumbledore sighed again. He knew it was no use trying to concentrate when his mind was all befuddled like this, so he sat back in the chair and started chanting, "Deep cleansing breaths, deep cleansing breaths..." to try and calm the storm raging in his head. Then the door to Moody's office opened.

"What are you doing, Albus?" a voice from behind asked.

Dumbledore kept talking to himself, lost in his chant. The Minister for Magic smiled wryly, though it was too dark a time to truly smile. 

_Well, geniuses are supposed to be a little off, now aren't they?_ he thought as he stepped over to the desk and tapped Dumbledore on the shoulder. 

"Excuse me Albus, I don't mean to interrupt, but Alastor told me you were here, and I thought I'd come and ask your opinion on a few things."

Dumbledore looked up from what he was doing.

"Oh, of course, Minister," he said.

Hoarie Rochester smiled at Dumbledore. There were great black circles under the Minister's eyes, but he didn't seem at all tired. He was a great man, an old man, but nonetheless great. He had hair whiter than Dumbledore's, long, thin, and tangled in his beard. He had what at first looked like a permanent frown upon his old face, but it became a gummy smile, from time to time. Hoarie rarely spoke, and when he did, it was important. He had been Minister for Magic for over 25 years and in the Ministry for nearly 50. His work was diligent, not to mention endless, and even at his age he still worked just as hard as he did when he was fresh out of Hogwarts, from long ago.

Rochester took a seat in the chair facing Moody's desk, sighed and then began speaking.

"Well, as you know, Barty Crouch's son is accused of being in league with the followers of the Dark Lord. Now, I don't know too much about the son, but if he _is_ anything like Barty, I'd be willing to bet he was under the influence of the Imperious Curse. But of course, I don't want to jump to ant rash conclusions. What do you think, Albus?" He asked. Even the Minister of Magic greatly respected Dumbledore's opinion.

Dumbledore mewled over what Rochester said to him.

"It certainly would explain a lot," he said. "The reports, the photos, the evidence...it all points the wrong way. I don't know. I do agree with the American system, innocent until proven guilty."

Rochester nodded, understanding.

"Mr Rochester?" a secretary's voice interrupted. She was young, blonde, beautiful, in fact, but she looked pallid and downright scared about something.

"What is it Ms. Shackleton?" Rochester asked, getting up from his chair so he could face her.

"Sir, we've just received news. Sirius Black has been found-" She was going to continue, but Rochester cut her off.

"Good. Have they brought him to Azkaban yet?" The secretary nodded grimly, "Yes Minister, but there's more. It wasn't the Aurors who found him first. Peter Pettigrew got to him, in the middle of a street in Muggle London. He confronted Black, yelling about betraying the Potters, and Black blew up the entire street."

Rochester stood up. So did Dumbledore.

"Was anyone hurt?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

The secretary looked at her feet, then up at the two men. "Twelve Muggles were injured, two killed, and they think Pettigrew was killed too... they haven't found him yet, but..." her voice quavered a bit, "they think he was blown up."

The three people in the room allowed a moment of silence for the poor victims. Dumbledore gave a low sigh. He just couldn't believe Sirius was capable of such a thing...he just couldn't...and yet, all the evidence was at hand. Sirius had to be the culprit; of course James had to make him the Secret Keeper, against Dumbledore's will. Foolish of James, really, to trust someone so close to him when they knew it was one of James's close friends. But this tragedy was a new, terrible kind of low.

Rochester looked over to Dumbledore. "I had better go, there'll be paperwork, and I'm sure the newspaper will want a statement, and of course something must be thought of to explain this to the Muggles..." he said, and started towards the door. He paused. "Innocent until proven guilty then? I suppose you're right... there is no evidence that Crouch was acting of his own free will... but you don't think –" Dumbledore cut him off.

"He is innocent," Dumbledore said peremptorily, "until proven guilty."

Dumbledore knew there was a chance Crouch was guilty, but it was a slim one, and he didn't need another thing to worry about, what with the Potter's death, and Aberforth, well... being Aberforth.

And Sirius...why? What did he do? Something told him there was something fishy going on there, but then again, Sirius was the Secret Keeper too. He was.

*

Barty Crouch Jr. wound his way through the underground maze, glancing at his map every so often to be sure he was still headed towards the dot labeled "Wormtail" that was waiting for him at the end of one of these dank, dark tunnels. He turned the last corner, and found what he was looking for. A small, sniveling, poor excuse for a rat was crouched in a shadowy corner of the tunnel. Crouch knew it was him from the map, or else he never would have guessed that creature was indeed an Animagi.

"Pettigrew," Crouch barked. "Pettigrew, show yourself!"

Rats scurried from hiding places at the sound of his voice, but none stopped to reveal themselves as they ran for a quiet spot. Crouch peered into the shadows, annoyed at Pettigrew's cowardice.

"Do I really need to say the code line, Wormtail? Who else would come looking for you in this slime pit?" 

When there was still no answer, Crouch sighed and said grudgingly, "The toucan flies at noon." There was a faint pop from somewhere in the shadows, and a short, pudgy man came out tentatively.

"And he roasts at midnight," a shaky voice answered.

Crouch sighed when he saw a man, covered in dust, grey from head to toe, approach Crouch. He was fat, pimply, half-starved, tear-strained, and covered in goosebumps, but he was undoubtedly Peter Pettigrew.

"I killed them," he said. "I killed the whole lot. I killed Sirius...I killed all those Muggles...they are screaming in my mind, the souls are crying out to me...oh, God, Barty..."

Crouch grinned. "Gives you a kind of high, doesn't it?" he asked. "Master will be proud..."

Pettigrew looked at Crouch. "You don't expect him to come back after what Harry did last night, do you?"

Crouch stared at the pathetic little man. "The master will be back." He told him, "And I will be right there beside him. Many of his so-called supporters are already denying him. Fools."

Pettigrew smiled at Crouch's courage, but he was still shaking. "I still can't believe I killed all those people," he said.

"You were a true Death Eater, for once. But I did not come here to talk. Come with me," he told Pettigrew, and started walking as the other man got up.

Crouch led Pettigrew down, away from the explosion site, and further down until they reached the last of the sewer. Crouch told Pettigrew to change back into his rat form and then picked him up and placed him on his shoulder.

As he reached the ladder that led to the manhole cover he planned on using, Barty took out his wand and transfigured his clothes. He obviously couldn't just come popping out into the middle of Diagon Alley from the sewer; he had a reputation, and he needed that reputation for his cover. No one would suspect a respectable Crouch to be in league with Voldemort, but if he were seen popping up out of sewers, people would obviously get suspicious. He transfigured his suit into something he'd seen Muggle workmen wear, and climbed out into the Muggle street, Wormtail still hidden in his pocket.

Crouch sighed – he had a long walk ahead of him. It wouldn't be so bad; he planned on walking about three miles, to St. Mungo's to use their fireplace to the Floo network, and then they'd go to Diagon Alley, where he would sell Pettigrew the Rat to a petstore down the way.

He reached St. Mungo's as the sun was setting, and trudged tiredly up the pristine white marble stairs. As he walked, he noticed people looking at him curiously, and wondered detachedly if he had forgotten to transfigure a pantleg back or something.

"Yes? May I help you?" asked a beautiful young face behind a front desk.

"I just wanted to use your Floo network, if you don't mind," Crouch said in his manipulative, kind voice.

The girl nodded and pointed to the fireplace in the corner. He thanked her, and moved to take the bowl from the mantel. He took a handful of the blue powder, threw it in and stepped into the flames. There was a breeze in the fire like a warm summer wind as he said, "Diagon Alley." in a cold voice.

Crouch hated Floo Powder; it always banged him around and made him feel motion sick. Again he had that feeling as he hit his funny bone on the side of a metal pipe and then nearly got knocked unconscious when something whooshing around knocked his head. But, luckily the trip was quick, and he managed to actually land in the right fireplace, which was a first for a long time.

He stepped out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, pasting his faux polite smile on once again. He quickly walked out of the pub, wanting to get rid of Wormtail and get some rest after his long walk. But that didn't happen. As Barty walked across the street, uninformed that there was a warrant out for his arrest, two men in black cloaks came up and grabbed him from behind.

Crouch reached for his pocket, for he only had to do the task set before him by his master...but unfortunately for him, Wormtail wriggled free, and Crouch watched the rat run all the way out the Alley and to a young woman pushing a stroller.

"What's this?" asked a little boy, picking up Wormtail.

The little boy stared at the rat in his hands for a moment. 

"Scabbers. His name is Scabbers." 

His mother looked down at the rat and made a face. "Can't you think of a nice name for the rat? How about Harold? Isn't that better?" 

The boy scowled at his mother. 

"NO! Scabbers!" he yelled, clutching the rat to him.

But, Crouch couldn't watch anymore, for he was Stupefied just then, and he remembered no more.


	3. The Love of A Brother

A/n: _hello it's us again._

****

Yes us... no we're not dead and you didn't get rid of us. We're still hanging around.

__

Sorry about the hold-up...there's nothing stranger than a duel writer's block, but it's all good. We know what we're doing now...

****

Yes we do, after much of that dreaded stuff called plotting... but the sticky part is over and now we get to write!

__

Yay! So, without any more ninnyhammering, on with the muffins!

"You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law so that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime so heinous that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court."

~Bartemius Crouch, Sr.

Frank Longbottom's long stride took him to the door of Alastor Moody's office quickly, his usually languid walk hurried. He rapped on the door, having been told that was where Dumbledore was. As one of those helping Dumbledore in the war against Voldemort, Frank was on close terms with the great wizard.

Dumbledore answered the door with a curious look, and his brows furrowed when he saw Frank.

"Frank! How have you been?"

"As good as can be expected, Albus, considering." he said grimly. "But I'm afraid I have some news." the tall man came into the room, closing the door behind him as he went to take a seat wearily, and Dumbledore followed suit.

Frank faltered as he looked into Dumbledore's clear blue eyes, full of hope, full of concern.

"The thing is..."

Again Frank hesitated. "Aw, Albus, this is really hard for me..."

Dumbledore rested his elbows on the richly polished mahogany desk and pressed his fingertips together. 

"Go ahead Frank, you know you can speak freely to me." Dumbledore urged him on, even as he dreaded what Frank might say. Lately, he felt, no news was good news.

Frank gulped, his oversized Adam's apple slowly rising down and up again on his throat.

"It's about your brother. Aberforth."

Dumbledore looked suddenly very wary. 

"What has the old fool done now?" he asked. In long previous years his brother's harmless, foolish pranks and strange quirks of character had amused him – they gave Dumbledore his rolling, slightly off sense of humor. It had ceased to be amusing now.

"Well...oh, Albus, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but you know Cornelius Fudge, the fellow who works as Junior Minister for the Department of Magical Catastrophes...well, lately he's been accusing everyone as being a Death Eater, and, erm...he accused your brother earlier this morning of being a follower of You-Know-Who and had him arrested, along with Bartemius Crouch's son."

"Good Lord... I always knew that man was a pompous, insufferable..." Dumbledore silenced the stream of rather uncharacteristic bashing of Fudge's character quickly with a shake of his head and sighed. "I never thought Rochester would let him get away with something like this." he said in a low voice.

Longbottom buried his head. "I know...I know..." he kept murmuring. "Honestly, the kid would accuse his own mother if it helped his political career...but let us not berate our colleagues. If you want, I can arrange for you to visit Aberforth, he's in my department. But before you do, I want to let you know that a lot of people are on your side, and the press already has agreed not to report this, because his disparaging of _any_ Dumbledore is absurd."

Dumbledore nodded, straightening himself out. 

"Thank you, Frank." he said sincerely, his crystal blue gaze weary but grateful. He shook his head. "Poor Aberforth. The man probably doesn't even know what is going on."

Longbottom laughed and patted Dumbledore on the back. 

"He'll be fine," he said. "Look, I can even pull a few strings for you, if you want. And Bartemius is doing away with a lot of trials because there are so many people that Fudge is accusing...I heard he's up to around two hundred names now! Two hundred!"

"That is absolutely absurd. He's worse than the Muggles of the witch trials," Dumbledore said, shaking his head yet again.

"Yes, well, at least the Muggles knew something fishy was happening, most the time," Longbottom answered. Longbottom stood, and Dumbledore followed suit. "I really must be going, I have a pile of paperwork to be doing, and Alastor asked if I could get down to the Black scene as soon as I was near done..."

Dumbledore nodded.

"Yes, the Black scene. Another thing that just doesn't sit right." he commented quietly. He shook the other man's hand firmly, letting the Black issue slide from his already over-crowded mind for a moment. "I appreciate your coming by, Frank. Thank you."

Frank nodded his head. "Good luck, Albus. And do let me know when you want to call on your brother, I can get you in quite easily."

That said, Longbottom left the room, closing the door behind him.

*

Bartemius Crouch Jr. woke up with a throbbing headache on a slimy floor, he knew not where. He opened bleary grey eyes and found himself looking up at a ceiling that had to be at least as slimy as the floor he was on. Light came through a barred window high above, but the light was dim as if even it didn't want to be there. No one in his or her right mind would.

He groaned as slowly, slowly, memories of what happened last night and that morning came back to him. Like an undeveloped dream flashes of instances came to Crouch, flashes that were intangible, as though a very grainy photograph recorded his dream. He remembered crawling through the sewer, finding Peter, blundering about killing someone...and he remembered watching the Potter house explode, and leaving to find his way. Oh, but these memories were painful, painful yet wonderful.

"Where am I?" he asked the murky light.

"Yer in a holding cell in the Ministry of Magic." A voice with a hint of cockney to it told him boredly.

"A what? Who's there?"

"Ahm over here, pal." the person said, and Crouch saw vaguely a hand waving at him through the gloom. "Aberforth Dumbledore."

Crouch gave a double take. "Aberforth Dumbledore!" he exclaimed. "Wow. Of all the servants I know, I thought you'd be the one who'd _never_ get caught."

"Hush your voice, Son. You want to give them evidence?" he said, though he sounded somewhat amused and even flattered. "S'all that fool, Fudge's fault, I tell yeh. And it ain't because he's smart either. You drag enough wizards in here you're bound to catch a few, eh?"

"Fudge...so that's why..." but Aberforth cut Crouch off with an audible, "shhhhh!"

"Who else is here?" Crouch asked a little more quietly.

Aberforth gave a shrug. 

"Don't see too many people from in here, but I did see Keiran Avery dragged by not long ago, and Nott's in the cell next door. The others" he said with a dismissive gesture, "are less guilty than my grandmother."

"Wow, how many are here?"

"Oh probably, I don't know, fifty?" he guessed. "Don't know exactly. That Fudge..." he shook his head, his short grey beard bobbing.

"Wow, I'd have trouble believing it," Crouch said. He rubbed his head. "If they've all been Stupified, same as me, I would be mighty mad at the Ministry, had I been, you know, innocent. But as it stands...." Crouch's voice turned lower. "So how is everything? Do you know if Master is...?"

Aberforth gave him a calculating look, the kind that most people never saw on Aberforth's face. He kept the more intelligent kinds of looks to himself mostly. Better if they thought you didn't know right from left. 

"You didn't hear?" he asked.

"Well, I was there when the house exploded, like most of us, but I never quite understood what happened...it was all madness after that."

Aberforth nodded. 

"Well, the Dark Lord is still alive, but only barely so." he explained.

Crouch nodded. "Go on," he said.

Aberforth nodded back.

"He's weak, but with the help of one of his servants he could easily come back. We all know he's been working towards immortality or else he'd be a pile of ash right now. But all he needs is a loyal servant."

Crouch jumped up. "What do you mean?" he asked enthusiastically.

Aberforth shrugged one shoulder and look appraisingly at the eager young Death Eater. 

"I dunno the particulars, but there are ways."

Aberforth shrugged one shoulder and looked appraisingly at the eager young Death Eater. 

"I dunno the particulars, but there are ways."

Crouch looked a little put out. "Curse this cell," he said. "I'd be the one...I'd find a way, for him, my master..."

Just as Crouch was starting to feel his powers swell, it was then a door opened.


End file.
